


A Fiddle Christmas

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2014 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Alternate Universe - America, American AU, Christmas Decorations, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson doesn’t decorate for Christmas, and Mary Morstan thinks that is a crying shame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fiddle Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyprydian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyprydian/gifts).



> Day Two of the Advent Calendar Drabbles. Because I am lazy, all fics are titled with the prompt. Today’s prompt was left by ladyprydian, who did not leave a prompt so much as [her own FiddleVerse-inspired story](http://azriona.livejournal.com/913386.html?thread=6979818#t6979818), so I’m not going to touch it. (Also, I like it, and I don’t see how I could improve on it.) Instead, she gets this. I’m sure she’ll suffer greatly.
> 
> The story takes place during [Chapter Four](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1017668) of A Fiddle in the Band, and is not in any way spoilery for Fiddle itself. The song that appears at the end is [The Christmas Song by Nat King Cole](http://youtu.be/dhzxQCTCI3E), because sometimes you have to go with the classics. If you’re desperate for a country version, though, here’s the links to versions by [Trace Adkins](http://youtu.be/K4tsExq38XU) (absolutely gorgeous), [Danny Davis and the Nashville Brass](http://youtu.be/tjyshh1qMAY) (sweet instrumental featuring brass instruments), and [Alan Jackson](http://youtu.be/CieHiRbAhf0) (classic country Christmas at its finest).

John Watson didn’t decorate for Christmas, and Mary Morstan thought that was a crying shame, and told him so every chance she got.

 

“I ain’t decorating for just me, Mary,” said John, and that was his only answer, no matter what kind of wheedling Mary did. 

 

Mary was good at wheedling; she’d managed to convince the library to carry all seven Harry Potter books, as well as keep the Scarlet Letter on its shelves despite – no, _because_ of the controversy they caused; she’d single-handedly raised enough money to build a new gymnasium for the county’s high school, even getting $50 from the misers out on County Road 17, and had pushed no less than three upstanding citizens to run for the city council.  All of them won their seats, and were still there, too, and didn’t seem to regret it.

 

She might have met her match in John Watson and the Christmas decorations.  It was only she refused to admit it.

 

“Now look here, John Watson,” she declared, standing in the middle of his kitchen.  She dropped the box on the kitchen table, scrubbed as clean as it had been the day Nora Murray had died, God rest her soul.  Nora would have been horrified to learn it was December 2 and not a decoration hung yet.  “I understand if you don’t have any of your own, and that’s all right.”

 

John peered at the box from across the room.  The dog in the corner sat up, looking hopeful, though Mary wasn’t sure if that was the prospect of Christmas lights or the fact that John stood next to the tin marked ‘Biscuits’.  “I ain’t accepting charity, Mary.”

 

“It ain’t charity, it’s _borrowing_.  I expect them back when you’re done with ‘em.  But you’ll decorate this house, and make no mistake about it.”

 

“Is that so,” said John calmly.  He crossed the room in stocking feet, and looked in the box.  “Christ, Mary, these lights have got to be fifty years old.  Do they even still work?”

 

Mary slapped his arm.  “I bought them not five years ago, and they work just fine.  And I checked – there’s still the hooks on the edge of the gutters, all you have to do is climb a ladder for ten minutes and snap ‘em in.”

 

“If I get around to it,” said John, and went into the mud room to put on his boots.

 

“ _If_ you get around to it!  John Watson—“

 

“Horses, Mary,” said John, and escaped out the door before he’d even tied on his boots or done up his coat.  Mary watched him walk the long way around the house where the wind blew the fiercest, and there was some small satisfaction in seeing him struggle against it, no doubt with the chill slipping in the open coat to his arms. 

 

Served the damn fool right, thought Mary, and went home.

 

It wasn’t until after dark, though, that she got to thinking.  John Watson was the most stubborn fool she’d met in her life, and that included the folks on County Road 17, who wouldn’t have known a good idea if it’d sat on their laps and introduced itself carrying a slice of pie.  All he really needed, she thought, was a bit of a nudge, and he’d see the error of his ways soon enough.

 

Mary didn’t waste a moment.  She went into her spare room, picked out one of the light-up stick-in-the-ground Christmas trees, and after checking that it still worked, headed over to the old Murray farm.  John Watson would decorate for Christmas if he knew what was good for him, or he’d be decorated regardless.

 

No Christmas lights on the house, of course, and every light inside was out when Mary arrived – but then, folks around there went to bed early, and John was likely no exception.  Mary knew her way well enough.  She parked the car as close to the house as she dared, got out and stuck the tree in next to the porch.  She ran the cord up along the steps to the front of the house, where she knew perfectly well there was an outlet, and almost immediately heard the scratching on the inside of the door, complete with a recognizable whine.

 

The door was locked – which was something a bit unusual, but then, John Watson was already the sort of man who didn’t decorate for Christmas by December 2, so who knew?  Mary knew – that is, she knew where the spare key was kept, right on top of the doorframe, and when she unlocked the door, the dog came running out with barely a glance at her.

 

He stopped at the base of the steps, and stared at the Christmas tree as if he’d never seen anything like it before – and as he lived with John Watson, he probably hadn’t.  But when he lifted his leg experimentally—

 

“Dog, don’t you _dare_ ,” hissed Mary under her breath, and the dog looked back at her as if butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth, and then went on out into the shadows to do its business.

 

By the time Mary had plugged the little tree into the socket, the dog had returned.  He looked at the tree for a moment, and then snuffed, though whether it was approval or not, Mary couldn’t tell and didn’t care.  She let it back into the house, locked the door behind it, and went back home, whistling the whole way.  She’d done her job, and by hook or crook, John Watson would decorate the rest of his house the next day, sure as anything.

 

At least, Mary was sure until she walked into her kitchen, and saw the extremely familiar box of Christmas lights sitting on her table.  The same box she’d left sitting on John Watson’s table just that morning.

 

“Oh, that _man_ ,” said Mary crossly, and had to stay up an extra hour before she could find it in her heart to forgive him, because she wouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink otherwise.

 

*

 

First things came first, living on a farm, and it was near on noon before Mary was able to turn to the problem at hand.  That problem being John Watson’s stubborn determination to keep his (Nora’s) house devoid of Christmas cheer, and Mary’s equally stubborn determination to do her friend (Nora, not John) proud. 

 

There was also the matter of decorating her own house, because she certainly wasn’t going to let her own standards slip while teaching John his.

 

It took two hours to set the white lights up on her house, and some wrangling with the stubborn and rusty ladder, but once she was done, it all looked as pretty as a picture, if somewhat incomplete without the little Christmas tree in the front yard.  She wasn’t going to begrudge John Watson for it, though – she’d do just fine, there were plenty of other things she could use in the meantime.

 

Besides, it gave her the excuse to splurge a little at the Home Depot the next day. 

 

After a bite of lunch, Mary piled the box of returned lights back in her car – and after a moment’s thought, decided to add the decorative plastic holly-and-berry garland as well.  It wouldn’t show at night, but it’d bring a bit of color to the front porch during the day.  And she could do it all up on her way into town to attend the library board meeting.  Country Road 17 was gearing up for a fight about the book with the gay penguins, and Mary was determined not to let them win.

 

There was about an hour left of daylight; John’s truck was parked in the yard, but neither he nor the dog were anywhere to be seen.  Out with the horses, Mary reckoned, and set to work.  The house was smaller than hers; the sun was just sinking below the horizon when Mary finished, so she went ahead and plugged everything into the little socket on the front porch.  Any more lights, Mary reflected, and she’d need a splitter.

 

But the house _did_ look sweet, all colorful and bright against the red-and-gold sunset. 

 

Nora would be proud, thought Mary, her heart tight, and she went off to the library meeting, filled with purpose and energy.

 

County Road 17 wouldn’t know what hit them.

 

*

 

Mary was still riding on the high when she walked into her kitchen and saw the box of Christmas lights, all tangled with the holly-and-berry garland, and topped with the little light-up Christmas tree.  For a moment, she wanted to cry.

 

And then she thought of Nora shaking her head in exasperation, and rolling up her shirtsleeves before tackling the pigs at butchering time.

 

“Oh, no, sir,” said Mary, determined once again.  “No, you do _not_.”

 

*

 

She woke in the middle of the night and listened to the wind in the eaves for a few minutes before it occurred to her.

 

Perhaps, she thought, the problem wasn’t that John didn’t approve of decorating.

 

Perhaps it was that he didn’t approve of the _decorations_.

 Well.  Mary could handle that.

*

 

It took the better part of half an hour to drag the box down from her attic.  It wasn’t a set she used very often – not entirely her style, truth be told, but it might be John’s.  It wasn’t that she didn’t _appreciate_ them when she saw them, just… wasn’t her thing, that was all. 

 

They weren’t heavy so much as cumbersome.  It was the sort of job she’d have asked John to do, but of course that was out of the question at the moment.  She waited until she was sure he was out with the horses before she headed over.

 

Didn’t take long to set them up, luckily enough.  There was plenty of space, and the little portable air-blower didn’t make too much of a racket, though she wouldn’t be surprised if John kept it off more often than not – just as long as he turned it on once.  Per night.  For a little while.

 

When she was done, Mary stepped back and looked at them with some amount of satisfaction.  The angels were a bit crooked, and the Wise Men looked slightly more sinister than she would have expected, seeing as how they were meant to be all humbled before the Baby Jesus, but Joseph looked kind and the Virgin Mary looked downright sweet.

 

“She reminds me of you,” Nora had always joked, which was probably why Mary had always disliked the Nativity set, because one thing she refused to be thought of was _sweet_.

 

Mary headed home, just as she heard the horses come over the fields, on their way back to the barn.  Part of her would have liked to stay and see John’s reaction.  But the rest of her was bone-tired from all the work she’d done, and she still had dinner to make, and her own Christmas village to arrange.

 

*

 

The nativity set was sitting on her porch in the morning.  Nicely folded, set back in their boxes, and Mary would have liked to admit that he’d at least had the decency to clean them off before he packed them up, but she wasn’t much in the mood to admit anything.

 

Certainly not _defeat_.

 

*

 

Clearly, religious was not the way to go.

 

The next night, she brought the elves.

 

They were cute little things, made of some kind of ancient plastic resin that had faded from their bright colors but still stood out plenty against the thick coating of frost on the ground.  They had cracks and lines throughout their bodies, and a few places where the plastic had been knocked and broken and the light shone through like a beacon.

 

Mary set them up along the path in a row, replaced the Christmas lights, rewrapped the holly-and-berry garland, set single candles in every window that she could reach from the porch, and as her final piece, stuck the light-up Christmas tree back in its original location, this time using the rubber mallet to pound it solidly into the hard ground.  It’d take a crowbar to remove it, she was certain. 

 

She thought, briefly, of checking that John Watson didn’t own a crowbar.

 

No matter.  Surely he’d have the point by now.  How many times could a man actually dismantle a set of Christmas decorations before he got tired of it, anyhow?

 

*

 

At least one more night, anyway.  The box was sitting on her porch in the morning.  Mary stared at it a long minute before closing the door on them and going to get her coffee. 

 

Coffee first.  And a good, long, hard think.

 

*

 

The sitting room in Nora Murray’s house was exactly the way Mary remembered it.  The chairs with their crocheted doilies, the multi-colored rag rug on the floor, the brass tools next to the fireplace, their points gone black with use, and their handles rubbed shiny with the same.  One would have to know what to look for, to tell that John Watson lived there at all.

 

Or what not to look for: well into December, and not so much as a Christmas card on the mantle for show.

 

The center of the mantle held a little china bowl, painted with flowers.  A pretty thing, but it didn’t live there during the month of December.  Mary set it to the side, and set down the box she’d carried in.

 

Her house was fully decorated now: her Christmas village arranged, her lights shining on the eaves and the gutters, outlining the house with white.  She’d arranged the elves in her own bushes, where they kept their own counsel, and inside, her little tree was bursting with colorful glass and metal balls, ribbons and the sort of ornaments made from pipe-cleaners and wooden balls twisted to resemble elves and fairies dancing amongst the pine needles.  The towels in her kitchen and her bathroom were embroidered with holly and bells, and her apron was striped in red and green.

 

There was only one thing missing from her house, but as it was a fairly recent addition, she didn’t think she’d miss it very much.  Besides, she was only about half certain it wouldn’t come back to join her display, and it’d be welcome, too.

 

Only… it belonged _here_ , in Nora’s house, dead center on the mantle, where it’d sat for nearly forty Christmases in a row, before Nora had given it to Mary when she knew she was dying.

 

Mary carefully lifted the Styrofoam out of the box, and opened it to reveal the pretty ceramic tree studded with Christmas lights.  It was still as bright a green as it likely had been when it was new; the lights still shone brightly from the light bulb in the center.  Mary set it on the mantle, ran the cord along the edge, behind the other items, and plugged it into its customary place on the wall.  She turned the little switch, and stepped back.

 

The little Christmas tree reflected back to her from the mirror, and the lights echoed across the room.  Mary smiled, her eyes hot and her nose itching, and gave a quick, brisk nod.  She slid the Styrofoam back into the box, and closed it up, but left it sitting nearby.  If John meant to pack it back up, he’d be sure to see it, and do it right – of that, Mary had no doubt.

 

Outside, she turned on the little green Christmas tree again – once more, hammered in with the rubber mallet.  It was the only exterior decoration this time, though – Mary might not go down without a fight, but she wasn’t going to spend another minute on a ladder if she could help it.  Besides, she had to wear _hose_ for that night’s city council meeting, and she wasn’t about to risk a run, not even for John Watson.  County Road 17 would have never let her forget it.

 

She left the house, almost exactly as she’d found it, and couldn’t help but glance at the lonely little Christmas tree in the front yard.  It would have to do.

 

*

 

The city council meeting ran long, and not terribly well for all that.  County Road 17 had rallied after their dismal defeat at the library board meeting, and came out in force.  Mary had her say and showed her facts but the issue had been tabled until spring, and she left with a sour stomach.

 

It felt a bit better, when she saw the bright lights of her house as she drew closer to home. 

 

It wasn’t until she came closer, though, that she saw the little green Christmas tree, pounded into the ground and turned on, in the same place as where she’d left it at John Watson’s house not four hours before.

 

Mary sat in her car, gripping the steering wheel, and wanted to cry.  _Wanted_.  Didn’t.  But _wanted_.

 

“Have it your way, then,” she whispered, and turned off the engine. 

 

The house was exactly as she’d left it, and Mary went through the living room, turning on the lights of her village and her tree and her garlands.  She turned the radio on to the all-holiday music station; Nat King Cole came rolling out, sweet and clear, and Mary kept moving through, arranging her house to shine as brightly as her wounded heart could stand.

 

_So I’m offering this simple phrase_

_To kids from one to ninety-two_

It was only when she’d finished, and looked back, that she realized what was missing.

 

_Though it’s been said many times, many ways_

It wasn’t in the kitchen.

 

_Merry Christmas_

It wasn’t on the porch.

 

_Merry Christmas_

It wasn’t in her bedroom, or the spare room, or even the attic.

 

Mary stood in the middle of her living room, and thought about Nora’s ceramic Christmas tree, still shining on John Watson’s mantle, and grinned through the tears that threatened, but didn’t dare fall.

 

“Your way indeed,” she said, and went to make herself some hot cocoa.

 

_Merry Christmas to you_

With extra marshmallows.

 

 


End file.
